// Overseas travel blog

It is not pronounced in the way a native English speaker would assume, with the emphasis on the Lar, but rather with the emphasis on the second syllable, -vik, which is delivered with an upwards inflection, almost like a vocal tick.

My great-great-grandfather, Hans Anton Hansen, was born in 1870 in this little coastal town. He belonged to the Sandar (Sandeherred) parish.

​A Norwegian sailor, Hans and his young bride (my great-great-grandmother) were responsible for bringing my great-grandfather, Thomas Henry Hansen a.k.a. ‘Pop’ into the world on the 11th of October, 1903.

I have fond memories of visiting Pop in Rockhampton as a kid, and also of him coming to stay at my parent’s house in Burleigh when I was young. In Rocky, my brother and I would get ourselves into trouble stealing trinkets from in the dried-up fish-tank in the neighbour’s backyard, or would try to behave ourselves a little and scout for mangoes fallen from the tree out the back.

When Pop came to stay at Burleigh, my brother and I would sneak up behind him and touch his silvery-white, slicked back hair ever so gently as he was drifting off to sleep in the chair, ducking and weaving out of eyesight so as not to be caught if our touch was too firm and we had startled him out of sleep. Pop is also essentially responsible for introducing me to my chocolate addiction as a toddler, when he would take me on pram rides to the corner shop and cheekily buy me Golden Roughs when mum wasn’t around.

While I’m no reveler in the tedious pastime of family-ancestry, I thought it would be a crime to visit the Norway without taking a look around the hometown of my ancestors. Plus, it’s sort of a kick knowing that some of my genes can be traced back to Norwegian sailors. With these things in mind, I decided to leave the hipsters back in Oslo and jump on a 2 hour train to the southern tip of Norway to see what Larvik was all about.

Day OneThe train ride was comfortable and modern, with high-speed Wi-Fi the entire way, and a charming old conductor intermittently stopping in to check on passengers’ tickets. As the tracks were being repaired at Larvik, the last leg of the journey involved a ten-minute bus ride from Sandefjord. I hauled my luggage off the train, and passed in to the bus driver, who stowed it away in the undercarriage.‘Takk,’ I said, in my best Norwegian accent.

He offered something in reply which was unintelligible; nevertheless he seemed friendly enough, so I jumped on the bus.

Once the ten minutes was up, we pulled into a little carpark located adjacent to the train station, and conveniently across from my hotel. I jumped out, retrieved the luggage, and wandered across to check in.

Once in my room, I noticed I’d been given one of the few rooms opening out onto a balcony. While it wasn’t looking out over the ocean, it was on the quieter side of the hotel away from the traffic of the main station. I opened the doors and stepped out, staring straight at a huge building wall decked out in colourful street art.​“Borders?” it proclaimed, “I have never seen one. But I have heard they exist in the minds of some people.” A spray-painted portrait of a proud-looking elderly gentlemen staring into the distance accompanied the quote. It was perfect.

The mothers of the town often took their whole brood down to the water, despite the often freezing temperature of the sea-water. When the children came up from the sea they would be rewarded with a cake the mothers called ‘Shiver Bread.’

After a short but steep traipse up a few blocks, I made it to the middle of town. Larvik’s town centre was reminiscent of a bygone era when communities gathered in the town square, chuckling together on park benches while eating a soft-serve and watching children play on the playground. But, honestly, there was barely a handful of people, and the centre was eerily deserted. I couldn’t see that many shops were even open, despite it being lunchtime.

Of course I managed to find the town’s single hipster-esque coffee joint, hidden away in a little alley that opened into a courtyard. This time I opted to avoid the expensive café, and pop into a supermarket to get a cheap salad and bread roll lunch combo. Afterwards I wandered back to the waterfront, and headed down the main pier.

A couple of sailboats were dotted around the port, and a couple more people were rigging ropes and doing sailing things I didn’t understand. I walked on further to a tiny red shed, and the wind started whipping around my hair. I spent a good two minutes trying to put my phone on self-timer and get a picture, but wherever I propped the phone, it seemed to get blown over. I eventually managed one lopsided photo.

Further down at the very end of pier were two platforms and couple of steep staircases leading to up them, which I naturally climbed to take a look. At the top there was actually a diving board, but no railing separating the platform from the water below. Given that I was being blown around by the wind, I opted for safety and climbed back down. Below, a father and his two sons of around 8 and 12 were stripping down to prepare for a swim. At a toasty (windy) 18 degrees, I guess it was the height of Larvik’s summer.

Further along the coastline I hit the town church, which was recognisable by its rather pretty and steeply angled spire launching up into the sky. The church was surrounded by rugged rock and coastline, and at the water’s edge were remnants of ladders fixed into the rock face, leading down to what used to be a thriving bath area. According to the museum:

‘In 1892 Larvik Town Council started a public baths to prevent disease being spread by dirt and filth. For a few pence people could enjoy getting clean in a warm shower or bathtub. A public saltwater baths was also opened. There were designated times for men and women and undressing and dressing went on behind the closed doors of the bathing house.

The mothers of the town often took their whole brood down to the water, despite the often freezing temperature of the sea-water. When the children came up from the sea they would be rewarded with a cake the mothers called ‘Shiver Bread.’

I did see one woman in her sixties swimming alone around the rocks, but sadly there was no saviour waiting for her with a fat chunk of Shiver Bread.

After a little more stumbling around the dirt path along the coastline, I made my way back to the main town and settled on some hot Indian food to warm the body and belly.

Day TwoI awoke to rain pummeling into my bedroom window at an angle, so grabbed my phone to check the forecast. It was still a surprisingly manageable 16 degrees.

I slowly got ready and made my way down to breakfast for all-you-can eat smoked salmon (three different varieties!), Brie, Camembert, and freshly baked bread, along with the standard options. I smashed two coffees and filled up on fish – so Norwegian – before stowing some bread and two pieces of fruit in my backpack. As you do.

On my way out I had a lengthy chat to the receptionist, who shouted, ‘Oh my god! Australia!’ when I told her where I was from, while burying her head into her hands and laughing.

‘You know, I really want to visit Australia…but actually, the reason is because I want to visit the place around 30 minutes outside of Sydney where they film Home & Away – it’s my favourite show!’ she laughed.

‘I know there are lots of other things there too,’ she added.

I laughed and then she asked if it was true that there are totally different climates in the same country. I explained to her the differences between Tasmania and the NT, and told her that, yes, we have snow and we have hot, humid rainforests. She gave me a couple of sight-seeing tips and then I set off, seeing that the rain had eased.

But the wind was unbelievable. I was prepared enough to have packed my Gortex jacket, which did a pretty good job of shielding from the elements. This time I walked the other direction along the coastline, again noting the absence of people, and ended up at the museum. Unfortunately it didn’t open until midday, so I continued on a walk up the steep, hilly street. The houses lining the street were painted beautiful reds and deep ambers alternating with stark white cottages, which had apple trees spewing fruit into the backyards, and were contained by white picket fences.

I really wanted to steal one of those crispy mini apples, but I couldn’t find any within reach and didn’t feel daring enough to jump someone’s fence to go on the hunt. Given that the town was dead, surely the people were simply at home staring out their windows waiting to catch apple thieves.

Soon enough the rain started again, and the wind made sure that there was no way of keeping my pants dry, so I took a detour back to town to bunker down at the hipster coffee shop. It was raging i.e. had more than five people there. The coffee was good, and I nibbled on a cranberry scone while doing some travel planning on the Wi-Fi.

Once the rain stopped, I made my way back to the museum. The deceivingly beautiful exterior had rather dull innards, only half of which were translated to English. Although I was doing OK at reading road signs, train directions and a few words here and there that either resembled the corresponding German or English word, I was lost when it came to didactic placards. I did a quick round, and then headed back to the hotel for some couch time and shelter from the relentless wind. I felt like I’d given the town a good once (twice) over in the time I’d been there, and considering the weather there wasn’t too much I’d left off the to-do list.

It is safe to say that little Larvik didn’t leave a deep mark on me personally, but it has nonetheless given me a glimpse into the history of a town on the other side of the world. And maybe a couple of ideas as to why old Hans took it upon himself to sail over the edge of the earth and transplant his family to sunny Queensland.